At first, Genka thought his mother had simply gained weight. True, it was strange: her waist had suddenly rounded, but otherwise she looked the same. It felt awkward to ask—what if Mom got offended? Dad stayed silent, looking at her with tenderness, and Genka pretended he hadn’t noticed anything either.
But soon her belly was clearly growing. One day, passing by his parents’ room, Genka accidentally saw his father stroking his mother’s stomach and whispering something affectionately to her. She smiled with a pleased look. Genka felt embarrassed by the scene and hurried away.
“Mom’s expecting a baby,” Genka suddenly guessed. The thought didn’t so much surprise him as shock him. Mom, of course, was beautiful and looked better than many of his classmates’ mothers, but pregnancy at her age made him feel uneasy. Even thinking about it was awkward. Genka had long known where babies came from and could figure out a lot, but he couldn’t imagine his own parents doing that. After all, they weren’t just anyone—they were his mom and dad.
“Dad, is Mom expecting a baby?” he finally asked his father one day.
For some reason, it was easier to talk to him about it.
“Yes. Mom’s been dreaming of having a daughter. It’s probably silly to ask you who you’d want—a brother or a little sister.”
“Do people even give birth at that age?”
“At what age, exactly? Mom’s only thirty-six, and I’m forty-one. Are you against it?”
“Did anyone ask me?” Genka snapped.
His father studied him closely.
“I hope you’re grown up enough to understand us. Mom has wanted a daughter for a long time. When you were born, we were renting an apartment. Mom stayed home with you; I was the only one working; we barely had enough for the basics. So we decided not to rush into a second child. Then Grandma died, and my parents gave us her apartment. Do you remember Grandma?”
Genka shrugged.
“We fixed the place up a bit and moved in. When you grew older and Mom went back to work, money got easier—I bought my first car. We kept putting off having a daughter, saying we still had time. And then it just… didn’t work out. And now, when we’d already stopped hoping and waiting…”
“I hope it’s a girl, like Mom wants. Our mom is young, but she’s not a girl anymore. So at least try not to upset her so she doesn’t worry. Think before you get rude or say something unnecessary. If anything, tell me. Deal?”
“Yeah, got it, Dad,” Genka muttered.
Later they found out it really would be a girl. Pink baby clothes started appearing in the house—tiny, doll-like things to Genka. A crib appeared. Mom often drifted out of conversations, sitting detached, as if listening to herself. Dad would anxiously ask if everything was all right, and Genka caught his father’s тревога.
Personally, Genka couldn’t care less about the baby—especially a sister. Why would he need drool and diapers? The only person he needed was Yulia Fetisova. If his parents wanted another child, that was their business. What did it matter to him? It was even good: they’d be busy with the baby and would nag him less. At least some benefit from the future sister.
“Is it dangerous, though? Giving birth at her age?” Genka asked.
“There’s risk at any age. Of course it’s harder for Mom now than when she was expecting you—she was thirteen years younger then. But we don’t live in the woods or in some village; we live in a big city with well-equipped hospitals and doctors… Everything will be fine,” Dad added wearily.
“And when? How soon?”
“What? When she gives birth? In two months.”
But Mom gave birth a month early. Genka woke up to noise—groaning and hurried footsteps behind the wall. Sleepy and squinting, he went to his parents’ room. Mom sat on the rumpled bed, hands on her lower back, rocking back and forth like a pendulum and moaning. Dad paced nervously, gathering things.
“Don’t forget the folder with the documents,” Mom forced out, eyes squeezed shut.
“Mom,” Genka called—instantly awake, infected by everyone’s panic.
“Sorry we woke you. It’s just… Where is that ambulance?” Dad asked the air.
The air answered with the doorbell. Dad dashed to open it. Genka couldn’t decide whether to get dressed or stay with Mom just in case. But then a man and a woman in ambulance uniforms came in, went straight to Mom, and started asking odd questions:
“How long have the contractions been going on? How often? Has your water broken?”
When another contraction hit Mom, Dad answered for her.
No one paid attention to Genka, and he slipped out of the room. When he returned dressed, Dad and Mom were leaving the apartment. Mom was still in her robe and slippers. In the doorway, Dad looked back.
“I’ll be back soon, and you tidy up here.”
He was about to add something, but Mom gasped and sagged on his arm.
Genka stood for a while staring at the door, listening to the unfamiliar silence. Then he went back to his room and checked the clock. He could still sleep two more hours. He folded up the sofa neatly, picked up the scattered things, and went to the kitchen. Dad returned just as Genka was getting ready for school.
“So, did she give birth?” Genka asked, trying to read the answer in his father’s face.
“Not yet. They didn’t let me in. Pour me some tea.”
Genka set a cup of tea in front of him and made sandwiches.
“I’m going?” he asked.
“Go. I’ll call when there’s news,” Dad promised.
Genka was late to school.
“Kroshkin has finally honored us with his presence. Why are you late?” the math teacher asked.
“We had to call an ambulance for my mom. They took her to the hospital.”
“Sorry. Sit down,” the teacher softened.
“His mom’s giving birth!” Fyodorov shouted, and giggles rippled through the class. Genka whipped around toward him.
“Quiet! Kroshkin, sit down already. And what’s so funny?”
Dad called during the last period.
“May I step out?” Genka raised his hand.
“Urgent? Twenty minutes left—hold it. And put your phone away,” the Russian teacher said.
“His mom’s in the maternity ward,” Fyodorov blurted again, but this time nobody laughed.
“All right, go,” the teacher allowed.
“What is it, Dad?” Genka asked once he got into the hallway.
“A girl! Three kilos one hundred grams! Whew!” Dad shouted into the phone, relieved.
“So?” the Russian teacher asked when Genka returned to the classroom.
“Everything’s fine. A girl,” Genka answered automatically.
“Now Kroshkin will be the babysitter,” Fyodorov snickered again. The class exploded with laughter, drowning out the bell.
Firsova caught up with Genka outside and walked beside him.
“How old is your mom?” she asked.
“Thirty-six.”
“Don’t think anything—I’m happy for you, for all of you. A little sister is great. I’m an only child. My parents didn’t want more kids…”
They walked and talked, and for the first time Genka felt glad he had a sister.
Three days later Mom was discharged from the hospital.
“What a beauty!” Dad said, admiring his daughter.
Genka didn’t see anything beautiful. A tiny wrinkled body, a red face, bow-shaped lips, and a button nose. For him, the standard of beauty was Firsova. Then his sister opened her toothless mouth and squealed—and immediately turned red as a tomato. Mom took her in her arms and began rocking her, murmuring, “Shh-shh-shh…” It felt strange to realize his mom had become someone else’s mom too.
“What shall we name her?” Dad asked.
“Vasilisa,” Mom answered.
“That’s some kind of cat name. They’ll tease her and call her Vas’ka at school,” Genka snorted.
“Then Masha, in Grandma’s honor,” Dad suggested.
From then on, life revolved around Mashenka—as Mom affectionately called her—and her needs. No one paid attention to Genka anymore; they only asked him to run to the store, take out the trash, pull the laundry from the washing machine and hang it in the bathroom. Genka helped gladly.
But when Mom once asked him to take the stroller out while she mopped the floor, Genka bristled. Better let Mom go herself—it would be good for her to breathe fresh air too—and he would mop the floor.
“I’m not going. What if the guys see me? They’ll laugh,” he muttered.
“I’ve already dressed her—she’ll get sweaty. And you dress warmer too, it’s cold outside. If you catch a chill, you could infect Mashenka, and she’s too little and weak to be sick,” Mom said.
Genka was circling the courtyard with the stroller when he saw Firsova. Before, she would have walked past and pretended not to notice him, but now she headed straight over.
“Mashenka! She’s so cute,” Firsova cooed, walking beside him. Neighbors smiled when they saw them, and Genka didn’t know where to hide his eyes from embarrassment.
That evening Mom rocked Masha and sang her a lullaby. Genka listened and quietly fell asleep.
But Mashenka still got sick. At night she developed a high fever. They lowered it a little with medicine. Mom and Dad took turns carrying her in their arms all night. In the morning the temperature climbed again; nothing would bring it down. Mashenka breathed heavily and fast. Dad called an ambulance.
No one blamed Genka for anything, but he felt guilty. He barely left his room.
“She really put us through it,” Dad said, coming into his room after the ambulance took Mom and Mashenka away.
“Will she get better?” Genka asked carefully.
“I hope so. Of course she will. There are good medicines now, antibiotics…”
Genka hadn’t expected to worry so much. At school he answered absentmindedly and got a C even though he knew the subject perfectly. When he came home, Dad was sitting in the kitchen, staring at one point. Anxiety stirred in Genka’s chest.
“Dad, why are you home? Are you sick?” Genka asked.
Dad was silent for a long time.
“There’s no more Mashenka,” he said with a sigh.
Genka thought Dad was delirious—then the meaning hit him.
“It happened so fast… They couldn’t do anything…” Dad hid his face in his hands and either growled or sobbed.
“Dad…” Genka stepped closer, not knowing what to say.
Dad hugged him, and for the first time Genka saw him cry. Genka cried too, like a little kid.
He wanted to disappear. If only he had died instead of Masha. Then Mom came back from the hospital. Genka barely recognized her. She had become a shadow of her former self. The apartment turned silent and dark, even though outside it was a bright day. Genka’s heart broke with pity for Mom, for Mashenka, and with the awareness of his own guilt.
After the funeral Mom sat for hours by the empty crib. At night she would jump up and run to it. She dreamed she heard Mashenka crying. Dad struggled to lead her back to bed. A week passed, then another, then a month. Spring came. It felt as if joy and laughter had left their home forever.
“Listen, before the roads turn completely to mud, we need to take the crib and the things to the dacha, or Mom will lose her mind,” Dad said on Saturday. “I’ll take the crib apart, and you collect all the clothes and toys. The bags are over there.”
“And Mom?” Genka asked.
“She went to Aunt Valya’s. She doesn’t need to see this.”
Outside the city, snow still lay along the highway. The sun peeked through dense gray clouds. Genka suddenly thought Mashenka would never see spring, never squint at sunshine, never hear thunder… Tears welled up and he shook with silent sobs. Suddenly Dad pulled over on the shoulder.
“You sit here—I’ll go see if anyone needs help.”
Only then did Genka notice several cars ahead and a crowd of police officers. He got out and went over too. A red, mangled car caught his eye. The truck door was open; a man sat on the step repeating, “I just closed my eyes for a moment…” One policeman held an infant car seat. Something pink lay inside. Genka came closer. A baby girl was sleeping there, about Mashenka’s age.
“Can you imagine—parents dead, and she doesn’t even whimper. Not a scratch,” a young policeman said.
Then, in the distance, a siren wailed. The baby woke and screamed—just like Mashenka. The policeman froze, helpless, staring at her.
“Give her to me. I had a little sister…” Genka faltered.
The policeman looked at him doubtfully, but handed him the seat anyway. Genka lifted the baby out and pressed her to his chest. And—miracle—she went quiet.
“How did you do that, kid?” the policeman marveled.
“The girl from the car? Come on,” another policeman approached and called Genka toward the ambulance.
“Brother?” the doctor asked Genka. “Hand the girl over.” But Genka took a step back.
“Are you taking her to the hospital?” he asked.
“Yes. They’ll examine her, then she’ll be sent to a baby home or an orphanage.”
“Dad…” Genka looked at his father with reproach—his father had come over too. And Dad understood.
“Could we take her? She’s fine. You see, my wife and I recently lost a child about the same age. My wife is suffering terribly. This girl would be salvation for her,” Dad began.
“By all means. Go to child services, file an application. If no relatives are found, or if the relatives refuse to take the child, then you can take her. It has to be done officially. Come on, kid—don’t waste time.”
Genka reluctantly handed the baby to the doctor.
“What’s her name?” he asked.
“According to the documents, her name is Vasilisa.”
Genka and his father exchanged a quick look.
“Alright, let’s go,” Dad said, heading to the car first.
“To the dacha?” Genka asked as he slid into the front seat.
“Home. We’ve got nothing to do at the dacha. Those things will come in handy again.”
And Genka calmed down. He surprised himself—he hadn’t expected to care so much about a stranger’s child.
“Dad, what if Mom doesn’t agree to take Vasilisa?”
Mom was sitting on the sofa, staring at the empty corner where the crib had stood.
“You’re back? Couldn’t get through?” she asked indifferently.
“Mom, you see, we met Vasilisa,” Genka said hurriedly, barely containing his excitement.
“Who?”
“Vasilisa.” And he and Dad began telling her about the accident.
Mom was silent for a long time. Then she said she would go to the hospital tomorrow and find out everything.
“Hooray!” Genka and Dad shouted…
“‘It’s all so sad…’ Katya drooped. What kind of childhood is it without parents?
…No matter how hard she tried to convince herself that an orphanage was a forced necessity, she couldn’t accept such a world order. It was strange that most people didn’t feel this horror, soaked through with the smells of state-run life. They can calmly come here to work, do whatever tasks, and not notice the children’s screaming look: “take me home.”
…Every adult, unlike a child, has a choice. And that choice is never easy; it’s always difficult, мучительный, and full of doubt. But it can give hope.’